Flashbacks
by sherlock.needs.a.case.holmes
Summary: John and Sherlock fight, John goes for a walk. When he gets back to the flat, he has a flashback to the war and Sherlock comforts him. JohnLock fluff, rated T to be sure.
1. Flashbacks

**Hey all! Thanks for all the view on my last story, Tiger and Kitten. If you are a new reader, please check it out! Thanks guys. Now, onto this story: JohnLock fluff, rated T to be sure. Enjoy!**

John was mad at Sherlock again. He didn't know why, or what he even did to deserve it (unless it was the solar system argument again). Really, Sherlock thought to himself whilst curling up on the couch, John should relax a bit. They had been through this argument many times, and Sherlock thought that by now John would have grown bored of always storming out in rage. This time was a little different, however. This time John didn't have a girlfriend to spend the night with, and Stamford was out of town until the weekend. He was out of work again, so it wasn't like he could go and ask for more hours. He was stuck wandering the streets of London.

John had no idea why Sherlock had to be such an arse sometimes. He had argued, _yet again_, that the solar system was of no importance. How could it not be? Knowledge of it had helped on more than one occasion by now, and John just didn't see how he could still deny it. He huffed out a breath of warm air, which came out as a cloud of vapor in the still, cold November night. Fog hovered around the city, floating between buildings like a vast, silent ghost, haunting the London night.

Sherlock hadn't had a case in over a week, and he felt it was slowly killing him. He got up from the couch, heading over to the kitchen fridge to retrieve the blood sample of a deceased man he had gotten from the lab. He pulled out the vial, staring at it as he held it between thumb and forefinger. He sighed, carefully carrying it over to the floor by the door to the lower set of stairs. Sighing again, whether out of boredom or simply thinking of how John would kill him Sherlock didn't know, he dropped the vial and watched as it shattered on the ground, the blood splattering across the wood and spreading across to the rug. Sherlock bent down to study it; the splatter pattern, the way it spread, and the way it pooled around the edges of the rug before it was soaked up by the fibers.

Meanwhile, John circled around the last block he was willing to go and headed for home. He had started limping again recently, and he leaned heavily on his cane with each step, his breath coming out in short puffs of air. It took him awhile to reach 221B, and when he did, he stopped at the front door to catch his breath and rest his leg. Suddenly, fiery pain shot up his 'wounded' leg as his mind took him back to the war. He was in the field, treating a wounded soldier that was bound to die anyway. Out of nowhere a sniper bullet shot through his- and that was where it cut off. Every time he had this flashback, every time he felt the pain shoot up his leg, he couldn't remember where he'd been shot.

Sherlock hadn't bothered to clean up his mess, leaving the blood to dry on the floor. Besides, that way he could continue the experiment later on, or simply observe it at different states in the drying process. He was now in his favorite chair, violin out and sitting on his lap. He didn't play, just sat there, lost in one of his trances, stroking the strings with slender fingers. He snapped out of it and turned his head to the door when he heard John open the door and start up the steps. He sighed for the third time that night as he heard the limp in John's step as he slowly and painfully made his way up the stairs. He frowned when he heard something he didn't understand. John was _crying_.

John opened the door to the flat, eyes fixed on the floor so that Sherlock wouldn't see the tears. A hiccup escaped his lips as he headed for the second set of stairs to head up to his room. He didn't even bother to question the blood stain on the floor; he knew Sherlock was fine, as Sherlock was always fine.

Sherlock got up from the chair, setting down the violin, still frowning, and stepped in front of John, blocking him from reaching the stairs. He stood there for a long while, John staring at the floor and refusing to speak and Sherlock staring at John. Finally, slowly, Sherlock reached out a hand and gently cupped it under john's chin, raising his head and looking at his tear stained face. "John?" he questioned softly. "John, talk to me. What wrong?"

John looked away when Sherlock lifted his head, sniffling softly. Another tear rolled down his cheek, and he was surprised when Sherlock wiped it away with a steady finger. He looked into Sherlock's eyes at that moment, shocked to find actual compassion and concern there. It had been awhile since he had seen that in Sherlock, and the first time he had seen it for him. John started to wonder what Sherlock thought about him behind his back. Was he always like this when no one was looking? Did he really have a heart, as Moriarty had said?

Sherlock led the shell shocked John to the sofa, sitting him down and settling in next to him. Tentatively, he reached a hand towards John's head. When the soldier didn't react, he continued, brushing a lock of hair from the other's eyes, then running his hand through John's hair. "Shhh," he soothed, continuing to stroke the man's locks of golden brown. "Whatever it is, you can tell me John." He could tell this wasn't from their fight earlier, and he honestly worried about his friend's health.

"I-it's nothing," John lied, wrapping his arms around himself. He sat like that for awhile, and then finally broke down, bursting into tears and collapsing on Sherlock's lap. He gripped the taller man's trousers tight in a fist, his other hand covering his eyes. "Oh Sherlock," he cried, longing for the gentle stroking to continue. "I had a flashback… Another flashback… It was the same one…" Between each sentence came a gasp for air, a violent hiccup in an attempt to gulp down precious oxygen.

Sherlock moved his hand to John's shoulder as he fell onto his lap, massaging it. "Shhh," he repeated, bending over to look John in the eyes again. "Slowly, John, slowly. Just talk slowly." He shifted to a more comfortable position, setting John's head in his lap once more. John let him, going limp in the man's hands, and Sherlock reacted by stroking his hair again.

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, immediately comforted by the concerned look dominating his features. He smiled slightly, starting to calm down, his breaths more even and the tears fewer and farther between. "Thank you Sherlock," he said softly, voice cracking. "For everything. I'm sorry we fought earlier."

Sherlock shook his head. "Forget about it." He laughed lightly, remembering their ridiculous argument earlier. "It was stupid anyway." He looked back at John again. "Hey," he whispered in the other's ear as he bent over. "I love you."

John sat up at the three words he had never expected to hear from Sherlock. "You what?" he asked, bewildered. He blinked several times, quite rapidly, propping himself up. Then he melted. "Oh God, Sherlock. I love you too!" With that, he leapt at the detective, kissing him full on the lips. "I love you too," he murmured again as they broke apart momentarily. It wasn't long before Sherlock was kissing back.

**Hello again! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Please R&R if you so choose, and don't forget that I welcome constructive crit. Thanks again! P.S: Over 100 views in one day! I am so happy right now! Thanks to all of you who have read, not to mention favorited and reviewed.**


	2. Fish Fingers and Custard

**Update: Thanks for all the reviews so far! I love all of my readers, and I want you to know that. So in this chapter, John is going to force Sherlock to do something he would never normally do. Hehehe, this shall be fun. Enjoy!**

The next time John had a flashback was during the normal, everyday routine that John had. Well, as routine as he could be around Sherlock. Just about the only schedule he could keep was getting up at seven in the morning to make coffee (and this was provided Sherlock didn't wake him up in the middle of the night to run some insane test on him). Most days, when Sherlock had a case, John didn't even get to brush his teeth before they were out the door headed to whatever fresh crime scene.

Today, however, there were no cases, and, despite this fact, Sherlock had not woken John up at an ungodly hour. John had woken up a little later this morning (due to sleeping rough the night before) and was preparing a pot of coffee for himself and Sherlock when the memory hit.

_It was 08:30, and John was in charge of seeing to all the patients that morning. He readied a tray filled with breakfast items and set it on the top rack of a rolling cart, where it joined many other similar trays. He wheeled the cart around the makeshift hospital, delivering medications and foods to those that could eat. For those that couldn't eat, he checked the fluids in their iv bags. He wasn't finished before a siren went off, warning of bomb going off. None of the staff panicked, as this was quite standard procedure by now, instead wheeling patients down a ramp into the bomb shelter dug out below the building._

_Time passed, and eventually the sirens died down. John helped the other doctors and nurses wheel the patients back up to the main floor and back to their stations. John was on his third trip back up the ramp when the unexpected explosion tore a hole the size of a tractor in the side of the building. bodies went flying off of beds, limbs were torn from sockets, and blood sprayed the walls. Fire from the explosion spread, burning the flesh off of the poor men and women that couldn't move themselves out of the way. Screaming could be heard from all over the building, and all John could do was stand in a corner, helpless, as it all went on._

"John?" The voice seemed far away, not real to John. "John," it repeated, more forcefully this time. "John, are you all right?" He finally snapped out of his reverie, his daydream. He had been standing there, hand on the coffee pot, during the entire vision that flashed before his eyes. Sherlock, of course, had noticed that something was wrong and came to his friend's aid, shaking his shoulders and calling out his name.

John turned to face his flatmate, his one true friend, tears streaming silently down his face, which held no expression. His eyes had dulled over, making him seem dead. Sherlock bent down a little to meet John's eyes. "Oh, John," Sherlock whispered, hugging John close. "It happened again didn't it?" John nodded his head softly in response, one, two, three, four times. Sherlock counted. He always counted. Four was John's safe number, the thing he reverted to when things went south.

After a moment, when John had calmed down a little, he spoke. "Yes," he mumbled, staggering out of the kitchen as Sherlock released him and flopping down in a chair in the front room. Sherlock's chair. He wanted to be held, to be loved. Not just wanted,_ needed_ the attention from his friend. From his unexpected lover.

Sherlock followed him immediately out of the kitchen, standing in front of him as he collapsed in the seat. He sighed, then picked John up, bridal style, sitting down in his chair and carefully, slowly setting John in his lap. He gently stroked his friend's hair, listened to his breathing pattern and tried to match it. When he succeeded, he slowed down his breathing, encouraging John subconsciously to follow suit.

John did so, and felt immediately better. Perhaps more so because he was being cuddled by the least cuddly man alive than because he was breathing slower. He forced a smile at Sherlock. "Coffee?" he asked meekly, his voice cracking.

Sherlock blinked slowly, his hand pausing halfway through John's hair. "Whatever makes you feel better, love." John was shocked. Never had Sherlock ever called him love. Not once. He slowly grinned, faking an evil laugh.

"Actually... I know just the thing."

An hour later, much to Sherlock's surprise and discomfort, they were seated in front of the telly with Doctor Who on, and each had a plate of fish fingers and a bowl of custard in their laps.


End file.
